Sam emerges after Amy. They’re standing on a landing platform. An elevated causeway connects to the beach. The platform ends at a hillside, by a lift designed to bring air cars up from street level. A stairway ascends to Sea Cliff, perhaps the city’s most exclusive neighborhood. Houses in the area routinely top three hundred million. And that’s for a fixer-upper.
“When you’re ready to go, David will take you home,” Amy says as she starts up the stairway.
Sam reminds her that his motorcycle is still in Berkeley.
“David,” she says as if addressing her network agent. “Please see that Sam’s motorcycle gets airlifted to his house.”
Sam has Marilyn set up a temporary access code to disarm his bike’s motion alarm. By the time the arrangements are made, they’ve reached Amy’s house.
Amy leads the way through the iron gate. The front yard is small but manicured. The house is Tudor in style, built in 1932, Amy says. Vines drape its rough brick walls.
Sam is impressed. “It’s lovely,” he says, following Amy inside.
“Everything in its right place,” she answers.
“Pardon?”
“That’s how my father used to encourage me to clean up. He likes things to look a certain way.”
“You sound bitter.”
“I was trying for weary.”
A pause.
“I’m listening.”
“I know,” Amy answers. “That’s why I’m considering my words carefully. It’s just tiresome. Everything is his.”
“I can see that.” Sam surveys the foyer. There’s a gilt-framed mirror, its reflective silver flecked with imperfections. Overhead, a chandelier gleams. Fresh irises, perhaps a dozen, stand splayed in a vase on a marble-topped side table. Busy fleur-de-lys wallpaper reaches from the waist-high wood molding to the picture rail just above the door frames. Against the far wall, flanked by two Louis Vuitton suitcases, a grandfather clock tells time as if meting out scoldings.
“So why not live on your own? You’re hardly strapped for cash.”
“Now it’s your turn to sound bitter.” Amy turns and walks through the parlor toward the kitchen.
“I suppose I am,” Sam admits, following behind. Though he’s watching the shift of her hips, he adds, “You have some nice antiques.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you get them from Kenneth Wren?”
Amy stops in the dining room, at the kitchen door. In the muted light, she looks somewhat surprised. “Several of them. Do you know Kenneth?”
“We met.”
“Does that mean you were lovers?”
Sam is surprised by the question. “Hardly.” He’s tempted to protest that he’s straight, but decides she’s baiting him. “Is that all it takes? A meeting?”
“If you’re reckless.”
“Sound like anyone you know?”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
There’s something sadistic about Amy’s smile. Or perhaps it’s just that she seems to know how much he wants her.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks.
“Water would be great.” Sam finds it curious that there’s no help, particularly given the immaculate state of the house. Perhaps the cook is out shopping.
Amy fills two glasses with sterile water from the autoclave; she hands one to Sam and leads the way back to the dining room, then out to the balcony.
It’s cold outside in the fog. The view would be spectacular in better weather. Amy takes a seat in one of the two deck chairs; Sam remains standing.
“You may want to sit down,” she suggests.
Music suddenly fills Sam’s head; vibrations course through his teeth.
Are you prepared for the unexpected?
How’ll you fare when a bomb’s detected?
Time to get your ducks in a row.
Explosions happen, don’t ya know.
So insure your life with Annabel Lee!
Peace of mind will set you free.
“Damn it, I’m being streamed,” he shouts over a sound only he can hear.
Amy takes his hand and pulls him down to sit on the chair beside her. The music stops.
“There’s a resonator that sweeps this neighborhood,” she explains. “It can only track down to shoulder-level when you’re standing. Below that, it’s blocked by the rooftops.”
Incredulous, Sam says, “This is a residential area.”
“My father thinks it was installed as a prank by one of his company’s competitors.” Amy runs her hands through her hair. “It’s only been up a week. I’ve already filed a complaint, but the zoning inspectors are backlogged for months.”
“I hate advertising.”
“We have something in common.”
A hesitant smile unfolds on Sam’s face. He stares into Amy’s eyes, and she, back into his. It’s the coldness in her voice that makes him unsure.
“You hate advertising, but you don’t mind the income,” Sam ventures.
“I’ve been supporting myself since I was eighteen,” Amy insists. “He’ll buy things for me sometimes. But I make my own way. That’s why I took Ibis as my surname.”
“I’m impressed.” Sam says nothing about the doors opened by her connections. He’s exploring, not conducting a trial.
“In answer to your question: I used to have a studio south of Market. But it just sold. So I’ve been staying here. I’m leaving soon, through.”
“I noticed the bags in the front hall. Yours?”
“Yes.”
“How soon is ‘soon’?”
“Tonight. I’m booked on Cayman Air too.”
“So…you were expecting me in Berkeley?”
Amy’s face breaks into a sly grin. “I was told you’d be accompanying me this evening,” she confesses. “But I didn’t expect to meet you so soon. When you showed up, I thought I’d get to know something about my traveling companion.”
Sam shakes his head in mock distress. “So it had nothing to do with the pheromones in my aftershave?”
Amy laughs and beckons him over. “Come here.”
Sam slips off his chair and moves to her side. She sits up and leans toward him. Her hands draw his face toward hers. The heat of her breath touches his neck. He feels angry with Nadi for no good reason.
“It’s been a while since you’ve shaved,” Amy whispers.
Then comes a kiss, cautious at first.
She undoes his belt; he, her buttons.
He knows this isn’t such a good idea. But knowing doesn’t mean very much.
Back in the shipping container he calls home, Sam rummages through his dresser for beachwear he knows he doesn’t have. He has a habit of doing the same thing with the refrigerator: opening the door several times in succession, hoping to find food that wasn’t there moments before. In a world where technology is often indistinguishable from magic, he thinks it’s not such a strange superstition.
Outside, Amy is waiting in her air sedan. Their departure time has been pushed up by forty-five minutes. Sam finds that odd; a private jet ought to be able to leave at the convenience of its passengers.
In his cramped bathroom, Sam reaches into the shower to turn the water on. Through the wall speakers, a network announcer greets him. “Thank you for choosing Municipal Water—”
“Oh for chrissake!” He slams the shower stall.
“At Municipal Water, we care about the health of our customers. That’s why we’d like to offer you our water security package free for three months, and for fifty dollars a month thereafter. You’ll get guaranteed protection from major intestinal diseases, parasites, lead, chromium, PCB’s, benzene, fecal matter, and a variety of other potential contaminants, including bacteriological agents favored by terrorists. Just say, ‘Sounds good to me,’ and we’ll update your subscription immediately.”
“Marilyn,” Sam pleads, “file a complaint with the Private Utilities Commission. Use the same one I filed last month. Overwrite the date field with t
oday’s date. Also, get an installer from City Water out here as soon as possible.”
“I’ve done as you requested,” Marilyn replies. “There’s an installer available on Friday at 9 a.m. with a ninety-six-hour window. Would you like to schedule the appointment?”
Exasperated, Sam leans on the wall. “So he could be here anytime between Friday and next Tuesday morning?”
“Please be more specific.”
“Does the service contract guarantee that the installer will arrive during the specified window?”
“No, there is an exception for extenuating circumstances.”
“How does the contract define those terms?”
“Extenuating circumstances include fire, flood, famine, war, terrorism, medical emergency, inclement weather, traffic, hunger, mood, and other obligations.”
In no position to negotiate, Sam schedules the appointment and resumes his scavenging. No shower for now. He settles for a change of clothes: a fresh shirt and slacks, and out of habit, his boom suit. Boom suits are required when traveling aboard commercial airliners. Made of goat silk and pressurized foam, they’re the airlines’ response to terror mules. They function like flak jackets in reverse, containing any explosion from swallowed Semtex. They also serve as flotation devices and reduce the incidence of blood clots among those damned to coach seating for long periods of time.
A few minutes later, Sam emerges with an overstuffed gym bag. The roar of the engines sounds like someone is vacuuming his ears. He steps into the sedan and flops down on the seat as the gull-wing doors close, diminishing the noise. He tells Marilyn to arm his home security system.
“Let’s go,” Amy says to her pilot.
“What’s the rush?” Sam wipes dust from his eyes.
David turns to answer as the air sedan executes an automated liftoff. Over the background noise, he explains, “Mr. Cayman’s broker sent word that the FAA has scheduled an emergency press conference in forty-five minutes. It seems this is linked to increased activity at the Centers for Disease Control. The broker concludes there’s a high probability that local airspace will be closed to protect against an undisclosed threat.”
Sam has wanted a broker for years. They’re a step up from agents, proactive rather than reactive. They are constantly bartering for, digesting, and correlating information. But as a result, they cost a fortune in database-access fees. The NSA runs the most advanced one, which analyzes domestic and foreign news and events across all media in real time; it licenses a restricted but still potent version, available by subscription to brokering systems.
Three minutes later, the sedan touches down at Pagebrin Airfield, which old-timers still call Moffett Airfield. Amy exits and Sam follows. They’re at the hangar used by those who can afford their own planes, probably half a mile from the facility used by private space companies. Fifty yards west, a no-nonsense fence rises like steel hackles behind a maintenance building. To the north, a sleek Boeing 797 gets its fix of jet fuel.
Two National Guardsmen arrive in a jeep. The one in the passenger seat hops out and approaches. He’s carrying a biometer to measure their hand geometry and iris patterns. After he confirms Amy’s and Sam’s identity, he nods curtly and jumps back in the jeep, off to screen the next passenger.
Overhead, a passenger jet climbs to cruising altitude. With a nod to David, Amy leads Sam across the tarmac to the waiting 797. Under armed guard, a crew of three is loading the plane with a substantial amount of cargo, presumably to defray operating expenses .
A liveried pilot greets them at the top of the stairs then heads past the galley toward the cockpit. The cabin smells of leather and lemon. Seats are few and far between. There’s a conference table to the fore and a lounge further back. A bulkhead in the midsection prompts Sam to ask what lies beyond.
“Sleeping quarters,” Amy answers.
Emerging from the galley, a flight attendant takes orders for drinks.
Almost as soon as the door descends, the plane starts to move. None of the usual flight-attendant foreplay.
Sam closes his eyes as the acceleration presses him to his seat. Opening them again, he watches as downtown San Francisco scrolls past in the triple-paned window. The labored sound of the landing gear retracting is accompanied by a hydraulic hiss.
Above the marine layer, the sky shines perfect blue. Gazing out the window, Sam can see several relay blimps through breaks in the clouds. They look like turtles from above.
Amy is staring out the window too, lost in thought perhaps. Thirty minutes pass before Sam breaks the silence.
“Tell me about The Terrorism of Desire.”
Amy swivels in her chair. “It’s my current show.”
“I know. But what does it mean?”
A crooked smile. “See the show.”
“I will, as soon as I get back.”
“You felt it this afternoon,” Amy says, sipping gin on ice.
Sam nods. “I don’t usually do that.”
“Nor do I.”
Even in the flat cabin lighting, Amy is too beautiful. Not that the lighting really matters when his mind is fogged. “The night your show opened in January,” he asks, “you dined at Aquamarine with Xian Mako and your father. Was the fourth Bernard Loris from Biopt?”
A look of surprise. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” Sam says, quite pleased with himself. “What did you all talk about?”
“Eyeballs.”
“As in blindness?”
“As in everything about them. Farming them, fixing them, and getting their gaze.”
“It seems to be your father’s adopted cause.”
“It’s self-interest,” Amy says. “Advertising infects through the eyes.”
“Art too.”
“True enough,” Amy replies, smiling. “If you ignore music.”
“I do. Auto-generated pop bores me.”
“Try a live show.”
“I know. I should.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I guess I just lost touch with that scene,” Sam answers, his mind still on Aquamarine. “Do you still have your log from that evening?”
Amy shakes her head. “My liability insurance requires that I keep logs no more than seven days.”
“So you still have your log from Sunday night?”
“I might.”
“Could I review it?”
“I’ll think about it,” Amy says, grinning.
Over the intercom, the pilot announces that it’s now safe to move about the plane. Sam unbuckles his seatbelt, stands, and stretches.
“All four of you had fugu that night?” he asks.
“Right. I see you’ve been doing your homework.”
“What was that about? Lack of imagination or bravado?”
Amy laughs. “Try politesse. Mako is a friend of the chef there. He insisted that we try fugu as a sign of respect.”
“Was a friend of the chef.”
A solemn nod.
“Was there any other reason? A celebration?”
“The opening of my show.”
Sam nods, though he doesn’t quite buy it. The bill went to Biopt. Presumably, the gathering had a business angle. And the absence of anyone from the museum suggests that art wasn’t the primary focus of the evening.
Amy shifts in her chair. “Why do you care what went on four months ago?”
“I don’t really,” Sam says. “It’s just that Dr. Mako had tetrodotoxin in his system. The likely source is Aquamarine.”
“I think you care more than you admit.”
“Fair enough. I’m trying to develop a motive.”
“Any luck?”
“No. Got any ideas? Why would someone want Mako dead?”
“Are you sure he was murdered?”
“I’m not sure of anything, but it does look that way. Someone went to the trouble of dumping his body on a road after he was dead. And his corpse was defaced.”
Staring out the window, Amy sips her
drink. “He was a handsome man,” she muses.
“Once, perhaps,” Sam says, recalling the wounds. “Did you know him well?”
“We moved in different circles. He in science, me in art. My father spoke very highly of him. He dined with us a few times over the years. Very polite, always asked about other people. We talked about art mostly. He was a collector.”
“Of antiques too, I hear.”
Amy nods.
“Did he ever talk about galvanic spectacles?”
“All the time.”
Standing behind his chair, Sam leans on the backrest. “How so?”
“Just what I said.” Amy holds her sweating glass up and looks through. It distorts her eye. “He talked about them constantly. How they were used to treat everything from blindness to psychosis. He saw them as a precursor to his own work.”
“An antique dealer in London said Mako bought a pair as a gift,” Sam explains. “The curious thing is that the cops found them on his body.”
“Why is that curious?” Amy asks.
“Well, if they were a gift…”
“Perhaps he changed his mind and decided to keep them.”
Sam acknowledges the possibility with a nod. Curious that she’d propose a theory so readily. It makes him wonder. Intimacy is a kind of blindness. Has he gotten too close to see? He resolves to check his log later for unusual stress in Amy’s voice.
“Could I take a look at them?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have them. I gave them to a friend and he got killed. Now they’re gone.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Sam nods. “Do you have a map to the rest room?” he asks.
Amy points toward a door near the bulkhead.
“To sustain me on my journey,” he says, grabbing a handful of cashews. “It’s a big plane.”
“Bon voyage.”
He ambles back, chewing, then brushing the salt from his hands.
The lavatory is quite spacious. On the sink, there’s a selection of scented soaps and miniature cologne bottles. The linen hand towels have been folded with precision. He dabs some of the cologne on his wrist, though he’s merely curious. Unlike Luis, he’d never actually use the stuff.
Refreshed, he opens the door. It comes slamming back in his face.
Sam staggers and falls, clutching his head. He can feel the door’s stippled texture indented on his cheek. His left eye will be black for weeks. At least his nose isn’t broken.
Oversight Page 11
